


winter burn

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Longing, M/M, Pining, Strategy, lots of longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: It shouldn’t bother him, how little Robb Stark fits his expectations, but Renly feels wrong-footed anyways. He expected a dullard, a warrior first and politician second the way Robert had been, but when they meet in the middle of the field, astride warhorses... Renly can see a sharpness in his Tully-blue eyes that hint at a cunning he hadn’t expected.~Robb and Renly's armies meet at Harrenhal to make peace, if they can.
Relationships: Renly Baratheon/Robb Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	winter burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afewreelthoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afewreelthoughts/gifts).



> This fic is for Reel, who donated money to coronavirus relief efforts! I was bogged down by school and an INSANE writers block (I ended up scrapping and rewriting at least 5 pages of my first draft), so I'm sorry this took so long to write but I hope it was worth the wait! Thank you for being so patient <3
> 
> some things to keep in mind with this AU:  
> -Renly is the King reigning in King's Landing, but Robb has still been declared King in the North and of the Riverlands  
> -Stannis is dead  
> -Loras is dead  
> -Theon didn't betray Robb, so Robb didn't marry Jeyne Westerling (bc he slept with her out of grief when he thought Theon killed Bran and Rickon)

Robb Stark isn’t what Renly expected.

He has the Tully look. Renly shouldn’t be surprised—he’s seen Sansa Stark before, after all—but after hearing how the North rallied around their  _ Stark _ king, he thought he’d be looking at Eddard Stark come again. He’s also younger than Renly expected—not more than eight-and-ten at  _ most, _ but he looks weary and savage at once under his bronze crown, weighed down by furs and a sharp sword. To complete the look of an untamed king from ages past, there is a huge, snarling direwolf at his side that has Renly’s horse on edge.

Renly will admit that he is uneasy as well, looking at those sharp teeth.

He may  _ look _ Tully, but there is no doubt that this is a Northman Renly deals with. Even from across the clearing, the way his men defer to him, the way they look at him screams respect.  _ They chose him as a king, _ Renly reminds himself. The Reach and the Stormlands might have been happy to accept Renly over Stannis and the Lannisters, but he cannot say the same for the rest of this country. Not the way the Riverlands and the North have named Robb Stark as their king.

It shouldn’t bother him, how little Robb Stark fits his expectations, but Renly feels wrong-footed anyways. He expected a dullard, a warrior first and politician second the way Robert had been, but when they meet in the middle of the field, astride warhorses... Renly can see a sharpness in his Tully-blue eyes that hint at a cunning he hadn’t expected.

“Well met, Lord Stark,” Renly calls, when they are within range. He is thankful, suddenly, at the white flags on both sides. Stark may not be a man fully grown, but he looks fearsome above his steed. Renly doubts he could take him in a battle, and with Loras gone…

Well, with Loras gone, there is no one he would truly trust to champion him.

“You speak with the King in the North,” a burly man at Robb Stark’s side bellows. His beard is thick and long, and Renly resists the urge to order it chopped off. “Not some vassal that will bow and scrape at your feet. You will call him King, or you will call him nothing at all.”

Renly hears Mace Tyrell scoff in disbelief at his side, and Lady Brienne’s armor clink behind him as she shifts, tightening her grip around her sword, no doubt.

“That is where we must disagree,” Renly says, as peaceably as he can. “For I have come here today to heal the wounds between our kingdoms, not to further them. We are seven kingdoms united as one, and a kingdom can have only one king and still have order.”

“You say we are one kingdom,” Robb Stark says, and it is the first time Renly has heard his voice. Again, it’s not what he expected, low and clear where he thought to hear a growl. “But I say we are two. The North and the Riverlands have no intention of rejoining the Seven Kingdoms.” He cocks his head to the side, blue eyes piercing. The move is quite calculating, and Renly feels a cold shiver under his gaze. “Perhaps we ought to start calling it the Five Kingdoms now, but I suppose that would be up to you, Your Grace.”

Renly smiles thinly. “I do not plan on reigning over a broken country, Lord Stark. You had no right to break the North away—even less right to break away the Riverlands, which the Starks have never ruled.”

Robb Stark smiles at Renly blandly, and it is like a punch in the gut. He realizes, suddenly, why it bothers him so much that he has defied Renly’s expectations. There is no resemblance at all, save his youth and the curl to his hair, but somehow...Robb Stark reminds him of Loras. “Are we speaking of  _ right, _ Your Grace? Because I believe I remember that the third son comes  _ after _ the second, in matters of succession.”

Renly hears Mace Tyrell begin to sputter indignantly next to him, but he quiets him with a hand. He’s heard it all before, and although his heart is hammering, his voice is mild when he replies. “Be glad of it, Lord Stark, for if it were my brother Stannis you had to deal with, you would have lost your head before having this conversation. I am here as a courtesy. I understand what you’ve lost, and how that drove you out from under Lannister rule.” Renly spreads his arms, gestures at their armies and beyond. “But our houses have been allies for years, Lord Stark. Your father and my brother Robert had much love for one another. It is time to heal the wounds the Lannisters have inflicted on our families, and our country.”

Robb scoffs, and whispers travel along the Northern line. “Heal wounds, while you still hold my sister Sansa hostage? While you deny our desire for an autonomous, independent nation? You say your brother would have my head. I will tell you what my mother told him, when he deigned to treat with her. I have an army of Northerners at my back who yearn for blood. I have an army of Riverlanders who want to be free of the yoke of the south. And  _ winter is coming _ . You may think that you have more men, though I doubt it is that much more after warring with your brother and the siege of King’s Landing. But I’d wager that those men have never seen a true winter, a winter that has already started.” He smiles again, grim, and Renly feels a spike of misplaced longing run through him—unwanted and inopportune. “If you want war,  _ Your Grace, _ we will give it to you, and bring it to you howling on the winds of winter.”

It is like a cold slap to the face. Suddenly, Renly feels his anger growing, and is about to snarl out something unwise when Lady Catelyn interrupts. He hadn’t even seen her horse, but she is besides her son in an instant, cold and collected as always. “Your Grace, perhaps it would be best to set up camp, and commence this discussion after cooler heads have prevailed. We do not need to be threatening war on empty stomachs.” 

Renly is glad for the interruption. He feels too heated, blood boiling, for a measured political discussion. “You are right, Lady Stark. We shall make camp, and meet in Harrenhal for supper tonight. These talks will recommence in the morning, and be more productive, I hope.”

  
  


The talks are  _ not _ more productive in the morning.

Robb Stark had been cold, if cordial, over supper the night before. Once, studying his sharp profile in the firelight, Renly had wondered what about this upjumped king pulled at him so. He truly looked nothing like Loras, who’d been full of boyish charm and a steely ferocity in equal measure. Robb Stark is as blank as a statue carved from ice, and Renly never sees him laugh, even among his raucous men.

In all, Robb Stark seems too hard for his age. He’s young, and even though Renly is no old man himself, it is strange that he fears what Robb Stark and his army can do. It’s clear already that he’s an able warrior. Tales of his battle prowess against the Lannisters had reached Renly before he’d even entered the war. There is a reason that the Northmen and even the Riverlanders follow him without question. There seems to be an almost godlike reverence for him among some of his soldiers, led by Greatjon Umber. 

Renly is envious. He has none of the assurance of his men’s loyalty and love, not the way he did when Loras was alive and love held the Tyrells to his cause. Now, all he sees are vultures, circling, waiting for a weak moment to strike.

“We will not return to the Seven Kingdoms,” Robb Stark declares again, at the end of the first official meeting. Behind him, his mother’s lips are tight with worry. “If you do not accept that, then these talks will be pointless.”

And so they remain at a standstill, and Renly is at his wit’s end. He can hardly threaten war knowing that winter  _ is _ coming, and that they’ve no chance once the Northmen retreat past the Neck.

Both parties refuse to give even an inch. Renly finds himself growing short with his attendants as the week drags by, and snaps at Garlan Tyrell more than once. If  _ something  _ doesn’t happen, and soon, Renly might go mad.

It is Lord Bolton, one of the Northmen, that suggests hunting.

Harrenhal is on some of the most fertile land in Westeros, and if not for the curse upon every lord that has tried to hold the seat for more than a few years, it would be one of the most coveted for hunting as well. The forest around the keep is thick and teeming with wildlife, and if Lord Bolton tells it true, boars. 

“A way to strengthen diplomatic ties, perhaps,” he suggests at the meeting, his pale eyes on his king. “Men never feel so ready to compromise as they do after a successful hunt, I am told.”

Robb Stark’s jaw is set when Renly looks over at him, one eyebrow raised. To Renly’s surprise, he gives a small nod, after a moment. “I am amenable to a hunt. It would be good to get out of this gods-damned chair for a day. What say you, Your Grace?”

Renly has never been gifted at hunting. When he deigned to go, it would be with a picnic packed by the cook at Storm’s End or Highgarden, and he’d eat strawberries in the shade with Margaery and her cousins. When he thinks of hunts, he thinks of afternoons of incorrigible flirting and watching the leaves sway above him, of waiting for Loras’s return, grinning with the stories of his bounty.

This is not that sort of hunt.

Against his better judgement, Renly finds himself agreeing. “A hunt will be good for your men and mine, I think. And perhaps for us.”

Robb Stark looks at him in surprise, a swift glance before it flits away and he stands. His chin dips in a short nod. Gods, he really is nothing like Loras. “Tomorrow, then.”

Renly’s last thought before he falls into a fitful sleep that night is that his brother Robert was killed hunting a boar. 

  
  
  


The first time Renly ever sees Robb Stark smile, he is once again atop his horse, that damnable direwolf besides him. This time, he is divested of his armor, and wears hunting clothes. The sight of his smile takes Renly’s breath away. 

He is speaking with the woman they call Maege Mormont, grinning like a boy of seven-and-ten, not the solemn king he’s been for a sennight at Renly’s table. His face seems sharper for the smile, not softer, but in a way that makes Renly want to touch it, and see if his teeth would cut. 

It’s a beautiful smile. He clenches his hands at his side before he does something stupid, like reach out.

“Lord Stark,” Renly greets once he’s astride his own steed, and the Greatjon bares his teeth in warning. Renly cannot call him king, especially not when he looks like a boy excited for a good hunt. 

“Your Grace,” Robb nods, and Renly wonders when he started thinking of him as  _ Robb.  _

“What do you think of our chances for some good meat tonight?” Renly asks, aiming for cheerful camaraderie. He thinks it lands, when Robb’s smile returns, a fraction of its cutting glory, as a slight crease at the corner of his mouth.

The direwolf is nearly as big as his horse. Robb lays a hand on its head, and says, “Our chances are high, if Grey Wind will have anything to say about it.”

_ Grey Wind. _ The name is fitting, if a bit childish. Renly wonders what kind of boy Robb Stark had been, when he named this beast.

The horn blows, and their party moves into the woods.

It is some time before Renly realizes that he and Robb Stark are almost alone. He’s left Lady Brienne in the castle today, thinking that Catelyn Stark might appreciate the company of another woman, and his other guards are not so good as to keep him in sight the way she is. He can see horses ahead, and hear the men behind him, but for now, they are alone. 

Robb does not seem alarmed, but Renly supposes he would not be either if he had a beast besides him for protection. Renly is determined to seem unafraid, but clutches his boar spear tighter. It does not fill him with much confidence.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Robb says, when he looks over and sees the unease in Renly’s face, “I would have met you on the battlefield.”

“You have much faith in your success,” Renly replies smoothly. Talking is better. He knows the battlefield when words are exchanged.

“I haven’t lost a battle yet,” Robb reminds him. “But perhaps you are right. I hear that you do not fight in the vanguard. It would be a long battle before I found you.”

Renly feels the sting for what it is, and shrugs it off with an easy smile. “The Tyrell army is vast. It would have been an  _ extremely _ long battle.”

“The Tyrell army?” Robb repeats. “Interesting. Here I thought they were  _ your _ army.”

Renly forces himself not to defend his words too quickly. “They are, of course, but they are still the greatest numbers within my army.”

Robb makes a noise, like his curiosity has been confirmed. Renly itches to open his mouth, to offer something, but he keeps it shut.

“The greatest numbers within your court, as well,” Robb says after a moment. “Now that you have wed Queen Margaery. I wonder, Your Grace, who it is that rules your kingdom. Baratheon, or Tyrell?”

Renly clenches his jaw. He has asked himself that question many a time since Loras’s death. He does not appreciate Robb Stark seeing through him so well.

“As everything in marriage,” Renly says tightly, “it is a partnership.”

“I shall have to take your word for it, as I am not yet married.” Robb says, and stills his horse. He dismounts, and gestures for Renly to do the same. “We should continue on foot. Grey Wind seems to think they’re close, and the horses will just make too much noise.”

Renly dismounts as well, and watches as Robb ties his horse to a tree. “You are to be married soon, are you not? A Frey, is what I’ve heard.”

Robb raises a brow. “Aye, to Lady Roslin Frey. When we return north.”

Renly huffs a laugh. “I do not envy you Walter Frey as a father.”

“Ned  _ Stark _ was my father, my lord,” Robb says, suddenly cold. 

In the silence, Renly hears how truly far away the other horses are. Finally, he breaks it. “I should get your man here to growl ‘Your Grace’ at you too, I think.”

Robb looks surprised for a moment, before he laughs, startled. It’s a low, clear sound, and he throws his head back to do so. Renly stares. Of the things he’s thought to describe Robb Stark when he first met him—sharp, hard, cold— _ beautiful _ was not among them.

Renly finds himself, against all odds, grinning back. For the first time they’re smiling  _ together,  _ politics forgotten, when the first of the boars stumble into the clearing.

  
  
  


The meat must have been delicious, seeing how Renly’s men scarf it down, but he can barely taste it. 

There have always been  _ rumors _ about him and Loras. There were people, like Margaery, who knew the truth of them. Renly had laughed most of the gossip off, claimed them a Lannister lie when the words were spat in his face by Queen Cersei upon sacking King’s Landing, but his easy smile had tasted like ash. 

When Loras lay dying in his arms, Renly wanted to take the words back, to let the people say what they would, if only he and Loras could be happy. But Loras had died, and the rumors had remained an open secret. 

Renly wonders if Robb knows about the things people say of him, what he thinks of such things. He wonders if he’s truly lost his mind for even sparing a thought on the matter. 

_ He’s your enemy, _ Renly reminds himself.  _ He’s going to be married. It’s very likely that you will go to war with him and that either you or he will be dead soon. _

He spares a glance at Robb, down visiting his men at the lower tables. He looks looser than Renly has ever seen him, a horn of ale in his hand and a smile on his lips. His crown is nowhere to be seen tonight, just as Renly had left his in his chambers earlier as well. There is a sheen of sweat visible above his collar when he returns to the high table. 

Renly thinks about the picture he makes—at ease and sweaty and slightly disheveled—for a long time before he can fall asleep.

  
  
  


For another fortnight, the talks are at a grinding halt. There is a difference now, though—because after the shouting and stubbornly refusing to give ground, Robb Stark still takes a turn around the soldier’s encampment with Renly, still joins him for a rousing discussion on the right of the Targaryens to rule and the necessity of the Watch, still attempts a game of cyvasse with him. They could be friends, Renly thinks, if not for their circumstances. 

Perhaps they still are, after a fashion. 

The one thing Renly has agreed to so far is the return of Sansa Stark, provided Robb Stark withdraws his troops in the Westerlands. Since that agreement, things have fallen into a routine of sorts. In fact, Renly almost forgets about Lady Sansa’s impending arrival until his messenger arrives and tells him that she is half a day away.

Renly means to keep the knowledge to himself, to keep Sansa until he can wrangle some more concessions out of Robb—but he’s  _ tired _ of this game, and perhaps…

Perhaps he wants to see Robb happy.

“Bring her in tomorrow morning,” Renly tells his man. “During the meeting.”

The messenger looks startled. “During, Your Grace?”

“Yes, during. I daresay it will be entertaining to see everyone’s faces.” 

It is Renly’s firm opinion that everything is improved with a bit of drama, after all.

And so, it is when Greatjon Umber has just begun his daily rant on the right of the North to choose their own king that the doors open and Lady Brienne marches in, escorting a young woman with bright red hair. 

Sansa Stark is  _ radiant— _ Renly has always thought so, even when he had taken King’s Landing and she was brought before him with soot on her face, shivering in her nightgown. Margaery has often sighed in soft jealousy of Sansa’s smooth skin and her blue eyes, but Renly has always been caught by her bearing. Her back has always been straight, her chin held high, no matter how frightened she’s been of him or his soldiers. Renly has admired that about her, even when she’d been his prisoner. 

She holds her pose with an almost preternatural stillness when she walks in, but then Lady Catelyn is turning, and a cry spills from her lips once she realizes what is happening. For the first time in over a year, Renly sees Sansa Stark’s facade crumble to the ground.

“Sansa,” Robb says from besides Renly, as if the air has been punched out of him. He’s out of his seat faster than Renly’s eyes can track, and within moments his mother and sister are in his arms. 

  
  
  


They throw a feast of course, but Renly is hardly surprised when Lady Stark and her children disappear after only one course. Mace grumbles about the insult of leaving early, but Renly doesn’t care—he only wonders if he’d be this happy seeing Robert again...if he’d be this happy to see Stannis. 

Stannis, Robert...their bloodied bodies flash past his eyes. Renly rarely allows himself time to think about his brothers. There is too much regret for him there. But tonight, he wishes for another chance with them. 

These days, Renly wishes for a lot of things. 

He retires far past midnight, when he hears Grey Wind howling at the moon. Lady Brienne escorts him to his chambers, the poor girl nearly swaying on her feet in exhaustion. Ser Robar awaits them at his door, relieving Brienne of her watch.

It is only after Brienne leaves that Ser Robar tells Renly, “Lord Stark is in your solar, Your Grace. Ser Emmon is there with him, to make sure he doesn’t tamper with your letters.”

Renly starts in surprise, but only for a moment. “I will send Ser Emmon out. It seems Lord Stark has something to discuss.”

Robb is waiting inside, seated on the cushioned chair Renly had brought along with him from King’s Landing. He looks out of place among the embroidered fabric. Renly has only ever seen Robb seated at tables in hard-backed chairs. Despite the comfort, he looks less at ease here. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Renly asks, as he dismisses Ser Emmon with a wave. Robb stands, crosses to the window. Renly sees a restless energy in him tonight.

“I was thinking,” Robb says, and meets his eyes. Renly’s heart jumps at the gaze he’d once thought cold. “You need me as an ally.”

Renly raises his brows, and moves to stand by the fire. “Oh?” 

Robb nods. “Better an ally than an enemy, wouldn’t you agree?” He strides across the room to join Renly before the hearth. “My sister told me many things, you see. And she confirmed a rumor that I’ve recently heard from my brother on the wall.” 

“What rumor?” Renly asks, and for a moment terror claws up his throat. Rumors...of him and Loras? Of the truth of Renly’s past, of the men he’s loved?

When Robb speaks, it is nothing like what Renly imagined. “Of dragons, rising in the east. Of Daenerys Targaryen, come back to take the throne her family lost.” He tilts his head to the side, considering. “The throne our families died to wrestle away from hers.”

Renly is quiet for a moment, considering what to say next. “She is years away from an invasion,” he says finally. “Facing unrest in Meereen. All of Slaver’s Bay is out for her blood, and by all accounts, her dragons are wild and untrained in combat. She has little control over them.”

“She has little control over them  _ yet,” _ Robb corrects. “And she has a fearsome army besides. I wouldn’t fancy my chances against her. Not alone, at least.”

Renly sees where he is leading. “You want to ally against her. When she comes to invade Westeros.” He laughs. “I know it was three hundred years ago, but do you remember what happened the last time three dragons landed in Westeros?”

“I remember that the North had to bow to a king she didn’t choose,” Robb returns. “I remember that we have suffered under the yoke of a kingdom that we did not want and are no longer willing to accept. I will not be another king who knelt.” He studies Renly with those sharp eyes of his. “And neither, I think, will you.”

What will be the point, Renly wonders, of all the bloodshed and tears and Stannis and Loras and Robert and even little Tommen and Myrcella, if he cannot even stay on the throne?

“And you propose an alliance?”

“You don’t want to lose the kingdom you have to a Targaryen. I don’t want the North or the Riverlands to rejoin the Seven Kingdoms. I think we can come to an arrangement. Our armies will fight together, when she comes.”

“Against  _ dragons?” _

“We know how they can be killed now, don’t we? There are dead dragons littering the last three hundred years of Westerosi history.”

Renly wants to believe in this plan. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“But?”

He sighs, “I’ll speak to my advisors about it in the morning.”

Robb Stark grins, the satisfied smile of an archer whose shot has taken down its intended prey.

Renly’s stomach flips just looking at him.

There must be something in his face, because instead of leaving, Robb hesitates. “May I ask you something?” 

Renly nods and clears his throat, not trusting his voice.

“Why did you return Sansa to us so soon? The Northern soldiers in the Westerlands have not completely retreated yet. I was under the impression you were waiting for that to happen before allowing her to leave King’s Landing.”

Once again, Robb catches Renly off guard. It is not the question he was prepared for. 

A thought flashes through his mind. He could lie. 

He could tell Robb that it was a  _ strategic _ move, demand more concessions from him. He could pretend it meant nothing to him, to release the most important piece in his arsenal. A hostage such as Sansa Stark has been invaluable to him—the only reason Robb Stark and his party had agreed to talks in the first place. Renly could lie, and nothing would change.

He surprises himself by telling the truth. “I wanted to make you happy.”

Robb says nothing for a long moment. Then, “You wanted to make me happy?”

_ I want to make you happy for the rest of your days,  _ Renly thinks, but dares not say. Instead, he japes, “You always look so miserable, you see. I thought a surprise would make you smile, but it seems I was mistaken. The northern cold must have frozen your face that way, I suppose.”

Renly thinks he’s gone too far, if Robb’s shocked face is an indication. But then, Robb’s head tips back and he laughs, bright and free and so beautiful that the last of Renly’s resolve melts away.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Renly leans forward, hands reaching. He holds Robb Stark’s face between his palms, still half caught in laughter, and pressed his lips against Robb’s.

Robb is frozen for a terrifying second, and Renly must truly have lost his gods damned  _ mind _ to have done this. He is about to pull back and pretend this was all a jape, swallow his pride and his sanity and perhaps throw himself off the walls of Harrenhal, when he feels Robb Stark’s hand fall to his shoulder.

Slowly, in what must be only a few seconds but somehow seems longer, Robb’s mouth opens under his.

He tastes raw and open and slightly bitter, like the Northern ale they’d served at supper. His teeth do not cut when Renly feels them against his lips. Robb kisses slowly, hesitantly, like a man out of practice with the act.

When he pulls back, it is the first time that Renly sees him before he sees the King in the North. His eyes are wide and blue, and his face burning red. 

“You realize I won’t give you the North just because you kissed me?” Robb asks, slightly breathless. 

Renly tries for a smile, but it is probably more uncertain than he meant it to be. He tries again, and says, “That’s just because you haven’t been kissed by me enough yet.”

Something complicated flits across Robb’s face, but then he is tipping forward slowly, opening his mouth under Renly’s again.

There will be time to hammer out an alliance between the two of them. There will be time to deal with the threat rising in Essos. For now, Renly closes his eyes and leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please remember to leave a comment/kudos!


End file.
